The four monks, who had never spoken or lifted up their heads till that moment, now directed their livid eyes at me, and repeated, all together, in a voice that seemed to issue from the bottom of a sepulchre, “Your crime is—” The Superior gave them a signal to be silent, and this interruption increased my consternation. It is certain, that when we are conscious of guilt, we always suspect that a greater degree of it will be ascribed to us by others. Their consciences avenge the palliations of our own, by the most horrible exaggerations. I did not know of what crime they might be disposed to accuse me; and already I felt the accusation of my clandestine correspondence as dust in the balance of their resentment. I had heard the crimes of convents were sometimes unutterably atrocious; and I felt as anxious now for a distinct charge to be preferred against me, as I had a few moments before to evade it.
These indefinite fears were soon exchanged for real ones, as the Superior proposed his questions. “You have procured a large quantity of paper—how did you employ it?”
I recovered myself, and said, “As I ought to do.”
“How, in unburdening your conscience?”
“Yes, in unburdening my conscience.”
“That is false; the greatest sinner on earth could not have blotted so many pages with the record of his crimes.”
“I have often been told in the convent, I was the greatest sinner on earth.”
“You equivocate again, and convert your ambiguities into reproaches—this will not do—you must answer plainly: For what purpose did you procure so much paper, and how have you employed it?”
“I have told you already.”
“It was, then, employed in your confession?”
I was silent, but bowed assentingly.
“You can, then, show us the proofs of your application to your duties. Where is the manuscript that contains your confession?”
I blushed and hesitated, as I showed about half-a-dozen blotted and scrawled pages as my confession. It was ridiculous. It did not occupy more than a tenth part of the paper which I had received.
“And this is your confession?”
“It is.”
“And you dare to say that you have employed all the paper entrusted to you for that purpose.”
I was silent.
“Wretch!” said the Superior, losing all patience, “disclose instantly for what purpose you have employed the paper granted you. Acknowledge instantly that it was for some purpose contrary to the interests of this house.”
At these words I was roused. I saw again the cloven foot of interest peeping from beneath the monastic garb. I answered, “Why am I suspected if you are not guilty? What could I accuse you of? What could I complain of if there were no cause? Your own consciences must answer this question for me.”
At these words, the monks were again about to interpose, when the Superior, silencing them by a signal, went on with his matter-of-fact questions, that paralyzed all the energy of passion. “You will not tell me what you have done with the paper committed to you?”
I was silent.
“I enjoin you, by your holy obedience, to disclose it this moment.”
His voice rose in passion as he spoke, and this operated as a signal on mine. I said, “You have no right, my father, to demand such a declaration.”
“Right is not the question now. I command you to tell me. I require your oath on the altar of Jesus Christ, and by the image of his blessed Mother.”
“You have no right to demand such an oath. I know the rules of the house—I am responsible to the confessor.”
“Do you, then, make a question between right and power? You shall soon feel, within these walls, they are the same.”
“I make no question—perhaps they are the same.”
“And you will not tell what you have done with those papers, blotted, doubtless, with the most infernal calumnies?”
“I will not.”
“And you will take the consequences of your obstinacy on your own head?”
“I will.”
And the four monks chorussed again, all in the same unnatural tone, “The consequences be on his own head.” But while they spoke thus, two of them whispered in my ears, “Deliver up your papers, and all is well. The whole convent knows you have been writing.”
I answered, “I have nothing to give up—nothing on the faith of a monk. I have not a single page in my possession, but what you have seized on.”
The monks, who had whispered in a conciliatory tone to me before, quitted me. They conversed in whispers with the Superior, who, darting on me a terrible look, exclaimed, “And you will not give up your papers?”
“I have nothing to give up: Search my person—search my cell—everything is open to you.”
“Everything shall be soon,” said the Superior in fury. In a moment the examination commenced. There was not an article of furniture in my cell that was not the object of their investigation. My chair and table were overturned, shaken, and finally broken, in the attempt to discover whether any papers had been secreted in them. The prints were snatched from the walls—held up between them and the light.—Then the very frames were broken, to try if anything was concealed in them. Then they examined my bed;—they threw all the furniture about the floor, they unripped the mattress, and tore out the straw; one of them, during this operation, actually applied his teeth to facilitate it—and this malice of activity formed a singular contrast to the motionless and rigid torpor with which they had clothed themselves but a few moments before. All this time, I stood in the centre of the floor, as I was ordered, without turning to right or left. Nothing was found to justify their suspicions. They then surrounded
